Taking your enemies out on walks
by Last-Summoner
Summary: Your name is Prospitian Smoothtalker, and you're the most hard-boiled detective on this planet. His name is Jack Noir, and he is the most cruel Slayer Derse has ever known. It's a balmy summer evening, you feel you're bound to have a sweet walk.


Your name is Prospitian Smoothtalker, and you're the most hard-boiled detective on this planet. Your deduction is perfect, your logic is flawless. Your ability of seeing the ghostly web of deeds and consequences and people tangled in it is beyond that of an ordinary guy. Solicitations for your service are numerous in quantity...

Okay, they would have been if it was anything but Prospit. But since it's the most light-enriched and most dark-deprived place in universe, you're suffering a total lack of crimes and, thus, Solicitations for your services. So you're just confined to do paperwork for your White Queen, who entrusts you this important job for your talents and exceptional intelligence (at least that's what you believe its like).

You have an office, quite a big one you have to admit proudly, in one of the numerous buildings on Prospit. The view from your only window is gorgeous, shadow of the moon chained to the planet eclipses your working table twice a day. Sometimes you stare out there, in between the golden moon and azure Skaia, into the narrow blind spot of space, and think if there are any other living things out there. Maybe even other worlds, suffering real crimes, and not only overdue parking bills. Worlds except Derse.

Oh, right. Derse.

It is a balmy summer evening, and though your workday is over, you're currently sitting at your table in the most discontent pose possible.

There's a Dersite sitting on your couch, hiding on its shadowed half. You know him well, so does he in attitude to you. His name is Jack Noir, the Derse Archagent, and (speaking about crimes) a few minutes ago he stormed into your office, told you to cease your work at once and give him his documentation, and when you told him you still have things to get done, he grabbed all your papers and threw them out of your only window. You told him you was going to give him his documentation anyway, and suggested that he takes a sit.

He's been in your office for countless amount of times already (and just as countless were times when you searched the whole street under you window for the papers thrown out), but you're still not quiet used to his presence. He sits cross-legged on the couch, a little tense pose (which, you know already, is just a part of his nature), and you can't help but keep looking at him. His left hand lies opened at his side, and you are hypnotized by the gentle spirals of the bar-code on his wrist, and you stare at it like you stare at the dark line of space between Skaia and the moon, thinking distant and pointless thoughts. About committing crimes.

He ruins your concentration by demanding his documents in the most impolite and impatient manner possible. Oh, right, you remember, the documentation – pure bureaucracy, a formal exchange of information between one side and another. That's a part of your job, this weird excuse for negotiations, and you can't just break off your duties – you're bound by your laws and protocols.

Jack hurries you, says he has better things to do then sitting on your dirty couch that isn't even worth sitting on and waste his time on you (who isn't much worthier then that couch, he adds). Never any attention for you, you say, carefully smiling and sounding humorous, all for his precious papers. Noir explains just as carefully that you're a hopeless idiot. You smirk and suddenly, as a little revenge, tell Jack he had just thrown his own documentation out on the street. It's a shameless lie, but Jack's face changes into priceless expression of helpless anger. You tell him you both have to go collect his papers.

It's a balmy summer evening, you feel you're bound to have a sweet walk.

He snarls and refuses to help you, so you just grab his hand and drag him out of your office. He allows you to hold his hand for exactly 20 steps down the hall. It's when you (accidentally, of course accidentally!) rub your thumb against his bar-code that he snatches his hand from your grip and snarls something very unflattering about you. You ignore his comment, and the wish to grab his hand again. He promises to cut your arms off if you touch him again. You say he always only promises. His bar-code pattern feels much like yours, a flat innate tattoo, like a rough birthmark, and the lack of tactile sensation of it disappoints you a little.

You come out on the street, where it is bright and everything's bathing in gold. Jack shoves his hands in pockets of his absolutely black outfit, and he looks so horribly wrong in this place he obviously doesn't belong in. You tell him that today you thought about if there's another worlds in this universe where everything isn't so black and white. Literally, figuratively, whatever. He says 'again?', mildly annoyed, and doesn't even look at you.

As you lead the Dersite in a direction exactly opposite to where your papers may lay, you step through and into the light lines between houses, breathing the lazy either of warm air, feeling if not happy but at least satisfied. You think about all of your meetings with Jack, at Prospit or Derse. He used to come, stare at you, hands on your table in front of you, accusers pose, telling in a sing song voice just how pathetic and small your office is (as if he understands, you've got couch!), calling you over-ambitious paper work worm, throwing your papers out of the window. You told him he's pretty over-ambitious for a paper worker as well. Agent, he reminded you bitterly. Archagent. He promised to kill you countless times, and you asked, desperate for the feeling of his hands on your throat in an insane act of violence, why won't he try. Too much of paperwork afterwards, he said, too many documents to fill. You aren't worth it.

Sometimes you wish you are.

Jack again interrupts your happy train of thoughts by impatiently asking when you're going to get his papers. You know you're approaching the place (which of course isn't where those boring useless papers may lay), so you tell him 'soon'. Thankfully, he walks the rest of the way silently, so you have a little more time to wonder why you tricked the enemy Archagent into having a walk with you. And why you're so eager to spend time with this guy in the first place. You never could explain that. And you're not sure you want to, you're just barely aware of finding out about your feeling as soon as they're named. So you just idly indulge your impulses and walk by his side silently, like a shadow (ironically bright shadow you must admit).

Finally, you come out of side streets to a square, a big open space. The great chain that attach the moon to Prospit is several streets away, so you can see it making a golden path right to Skaia. You say the moon will be eclipsing soon, and Jack has to see it. The timing is perfect, a happy coincidence. Jack snarls that he doesn't have to do anything and that he's got enough of those moon eclipses at Derse on a regular basis. You do your best to ignore him.

Of course there is a reason why you want him to see it. The eclipse is always something unimaginably rich, yet already casual, everyday miracle. Most people of Prospit are on war nowadays (like always, though), but the ones that still ghost along the streets turn up their head on the sight of eclipse, watching the blinding halo of Skaya honoring the moon.

If you happened to look out of your window in the evening, just before the end of your workday, you could see white couples that watch the eclipse, holding hands and letting shadow of the moon cover them. They'll lean into each other, shoulders pressing and hands clutched, as if they suddenly realized just how small and unimportant they are, little pawns. But they never feel alone or unhappy, because they've got each other, other little pawns that are mirroring themselves. And they stand there until the eclipse end and Skaia is shining again. They'll leave, never breaking hands. Teeth-achingly sweet moments. You didn't feel particularly lonely most of the time, but then you wished you can hold someones hand.

Well, you can do that now.

When you see the great chained moon slowly covering shiny Skaia, you can almost feel your not so big planet actually move, turning around, and it makes you feel so small. So insignificant. The world seem to loose its anchor and start spinning, and you feel like loosing your faint balance on its surface. You have to hold on to something. Jack is standing by your side, within reach.

You do it quickly so he don't have the opportunity to react (you know he can be very unpredictable, you still bear scars from that incident with a penknife). You grab his hand, clumsily entwine your fingers with his and stay fluttering, waiting for pain to come from him. The moon is almost completely in the way of Skaya now, and you squeeze his hand, staring at the sky without blinking until your eyes are sore. You know that there are others around you, white figures belonging to light, and you're the only one connected to the dark one here. It makes you feel suddenly out of place.

You finally have the nerve to look at Jack. Surprisingly, he's staring at the sky, look on his face unreadable. You think that if you don't do something your heart will explode from overwhelming feelings, emotions or whatever the thing that flutter your insides is called. Your body betrays you, and you sway in his direction, lean down and press your mouth to his. Well, not quite to his mouth; you miss (nervous, you're just nervous) and plant an awkward kiss to his cheek, but when Jack turns to you it gives you another chance to try.

This time you don't miss. His lips are barely as warm as air.

You count to five, ignoring uncomfortable pose and your noses touching (you even enjoy it), and then break the kiss and move away. A stupid thought blinks through your mind that maybe Jack would let you hold his hand and won't get mad, but it's quickly eliminated by Jack grabbing your collar and giving you a headbutt. Your nose cracks and immediately starts bleeding, but Jack doesn't allow you to back up and let go off your collar to give you a heavy punch. Your jaw cracks as well, and you're finally allowed to step away. Jack bares his teeth in a snarl and tells you just how impossibly filthy and brainless you are (of course his words are much more harsh then that, and nearby couples break their holding hands to jam each others ears). You try to tell him something, but your voice is muffled by blood flowing from your nose that is choking you, and your damaged jaw feels unspeakably (yeah, unspeakably) bad and doesn't allow you to emit distinguishable sounds. Jack demonstratively wipes his hands in his coat and tells you that if his papers won't be at his office by tomorrows noon he'll crack your skull open. You want to tell him you already are too cracked up (if a phrase like this even exists), but he turns away and quickly disappears out of your sight.

People on the square are poking their fingers at you, and you do your best to stand straight and tell them you're alright. You fail at it horribly because your nose bleeding just won't stop and you can't breath properly. You decide to follow Mr. Noir's example and disappear, so you head up to the nearest alley. The eclipse is barely coming to it's end, but you don't care about its beauty anymore (you care about your beauty now, which is totally ruined). You wipe your blood with the end of your colorful coat, painting it all red, and when you reach your office building your bleeding finally stops. You try to move your jaw a little and decide not to do that anymore.

Papers are laying were you left them – on the ground under your window. You do your best to make your hands clean enough not to paint your reports red as well. The workday is over, and there's nobody to look at you from out of the windows to see you in such a bad shape, and you're thankful for that.

You're one of the best detectives on this planet. Your intelligence is matchless, your logic is unbeatable. But right now you're on your knees, picking up remaining papers of documentation lying on the street. Half of your report has already gone in the wind, and you will have to spend another sleepless night to finish it in time. Your nose is broken, your jaw probably is too. You're not sure if all this blood can ever be washed from your clothes. You think if todays meeting with Jack was worth it. You spend only several seconds wondering.

Of course it was.


End file.
